The girl shook her head.
"It can't."
He nodded.
"I know."
She looked toward the combine.
"Grandpa said the machine doesn't care how confident you are."
The foreman gave a short laugh.
"Your grandpa and I would've gotten along."
The girl considered.
"Maybe."
He smiled.
Then became serious.
"I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did."
The girl looked surprised.
He continued.
"You came here trying to help. I was frustrated, and I took it out on you."
For several seconds, she didn't respond.
Then she nodded.
"Okay."
The foreman glanced toward the tractor.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"How old were you when you first rode on that thing?"
The girl smiled.
"Four."
He laughed.
"Four?"
"Grandpa held me on his lap while it was parked, and he explained all the levers."
The foreman's expression softened.
"He must've loved you a lot."
The girl's smile faded slightly.
She looked toward the old tractor.
"Yeah."
Then she whispered.
"He did."
The foreman nodded.
He didn't try to fill the silence.
For the first time since arriving at Hollow Creek Farm, he understood that the little green tractor represented more than a strange recovery idea.
It was a connection between a grieving child and a grandfather whose knowledge still mattered.
And the girl had brought that knowledge to a field full of machines far bigger than anything he'd ever owned.
The first visible change came shortly before sunset.
An experienced drainage contractor had taken the old John Deere along the verified perimeter route, opening a narrow shallow channel where the engineers had determined it could safely connect to the controlled drainage work.
The antique tractor moved slowly.
Its engine sounded almost cheerful beneath the gray sky.
The girl stood beside her mother, watching from behind the worksite boundary.
When the operator completed the pass, he shut the tractor down.
The drainage crew inspected the channel.
Then coordinated the next stage of restoring flow.
For several minutes, nothing obvious happened.
The girl held her breath.
The workers watched the outlet.
The mother looked toward the combine.
Then a thin ribbon of brown water began moving through the channel.
At first, it was barely noticeable.
A slow current.
A change in the surface.
A line of floating leaves turning toward the lower ground.
Then the flow grew stronger.
Water that had been trapped in the field began finding its way toward the approved outlet.
A worker called to the drainage engineer.
The foreman hurried over.
Everyone watched.
The water continued moving.
Not violently.
Not like a broken dam.
But steadily enough that the difference was unmistakable.